Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  * * *

  “Scuttlebutt says we’re goin’ for Kuri-kawi hisself,” Chief Isak Rueben announced flatly to the aft fireroom at large in what, for him, was an almost giddy tone. There were hoots of tired appreciation in the dank, sweltering space. It had probably achieved 130 degrees in the firerooms that day, and though the heat had moderated with the night, it was still over 90. Lieutenant Tab-At slid down the ladder from the escape trunk above, her bare feet splatting in the grimy muck on the deckplates. She glared at Isak. “You happy now it’s nasty down here again?”

  “We’re goin’ after Kuri-kawi!” Isak told her, ignoring her jab.

  “You don’t say,” Tabby replied with a trace of sarcasm. She didn’t point out that she’d just spoken with Spanky and probably knew a lot more than Isak. That would be mean. She thought Isak had finally gotten over her being his superior and they got along about as well as ever, but she didn’t like to remind him of the official gulf between them. As far as she was concerned, Isak was more like a partner, a backup engineering officer, and they both did essentially the same job. She was better at organization and paperwork, even considering her limited letters, and was infinitely better at translating Isak’s admitted genius concerning the powerplant to the rest of the snipes—not to mention other officers and divisions.

  “Yah,” Isak said. “We’ll sink those iron-plated Grik-Japs’ asses like . . . somethin’ easy! Like turtle heads in a stock tank!”

  “They handled Saanty Caat pretty rough,” Tabby reminded, a little confused by Isak’s reference.

  “So? She’s a damn log, just wallowin’ there. All she could do was creep along like a slug an’ take it.” He tapped a hot boiler with a wrench affectionately. “We can outrun their shot!”

  Tabby blinked annoyance. “No, we can’t,” she said. “We’re fast enough to spoil their aim, maybe, but we got no armor at all. The rest of the word is, Saanty Caat had to get close to do any damage with her guns, an’ S-Nineteen had to get just as close for torpedoes. Don’t get cocky down here! When we fight, be ready to patch holes an’ shore up plates on the double! If they shoot holes in us, they gonna be damn big ones!”

  Isak peered at her. “You sure have turned grumpy in yer old age—an’ since you officered up!”

  Tabby blinked surprised irritation. “Well . . . when did you change to such a ‘all’s swell’ kinda guy?”

  Isak shrugged. “Never did. You want I should carry on an’ spew woe ever’where—like okra seeds?”

  Tabby chuckled. She and Isak—and Gilbert—once spent most of a day discussing okra. In that one respect, the two half brothers deeply disagreed. Isak hated it, Gilbert loved it, and even never having tasted it, Tabby came down on Isak’s side, based solely on his description of the stuff. “No,” she conceded.

  “Then lemme be, an’ quit trompin’ on my genu-ine pleasure at goin’ up against that Jap booger in my very own fireroom, aboard my own ship! I been toilin’ away at so many stinky jobs lately, even puttin’ up with that beetle-brain Laney!” He paused. “Say, I don’t s’pose he bought it?” he asked hopefully.

  “No word on that.”

  “Too bad. It’s a cryin’ shame good fellas like Mr. Ellis always get it, but the Laneys o’ the world thrive like roaches.”

  Tabby shook her head, but couldn’t argue. “I’m headin’ to the aft engine room. Screwy noises comin’ from the port shaft. Might just be this beam sea shovin’ us around. Come look when you get a chance. Otherwise, I’ll be at the throttle station.”

  * * *

  “So what does a sore, beat-up Marine do in a surface action on a destroyer?” Gunny Horn asked Dennis Silva. They were on the amidships gun platform, over the galley, and they weren’t alone. Most of the crews of both 4"-50s, port and starboard, not on watch somewhere else were there already. Everyone had their own opinion about when they’d meet the enemy but they’d all concluded it must be soon. Too anxious to sleep, those without other duties had gravitated to their battle stations as the night wore on.

  “You wouldn’t have to ask if you’d come to drill instead o’ lollygaggin’ around, m’lingerin’ an’ hidin’ from honest work,” Silva scolded piously.

  “Should’a drilled,” Lawrence agreed emphatically, arms crossed over his chest. It was awkward for him to put his hands on his hips like Spanky often did—he just wasn’t built right—but his stance implied a saltiness that Gunny Horn didn’t have.

  Horn goggled at the . . . lizard scolding him, but held his tongue. He liked Lawrence and he’d already heard Silva’s fuzzy, reptilian buddy knew his way around Walker’s main battery. “I’ve been on limited duty,” he protested, taking a drag off one of the vile cigarettes starting to show up in cartons marked “Pepper, Isak, and Gilbert Smoking Tobacco Co.” at Andaman. The nasty-smelling things weren’t very popular yet and they’d already earned the nickname PIG cigs, but Isak—who owned the process for making them back in Baalkpan, was pushing them as hard as his personality allowed. Many of the humans who’d kicked the habit left them alone or kept chewing the Lemurian tobacco they’d gotten used to, but a few gladly resumed. Even a few ’Cats had tried them. Now the gathered Lemurians cackled at Horn with nervous amusement, or pretended to gag on his smoke.

  “‘Limited’ don’t mean ‘pro-hibited’ from doin’ anything harder than smolderin’, stuffin’ yer face, an’ wallowin’ in yer rack,” Silva insisted. “It means ‘no jumpin’ overboard an’ tryin’ to outswim the ship—while whuppin’ flashies with a stick.’” There were laughs, and Silva continued. “It means ‘no climbin’ the foremast by a backstay an’ standin’ on yer stupid head on top of the crow’s nest!’” More laughter exploded, and the ’Cats stamped the deck.

  “Knock off that shit!” roared Earl Lanier, waddling out from the galley beneath them. “I been building a mountain o’ sammiches, an’ you nearly tumped it over!”

  “You’re just makin’ excuses for havin’ ate half of ’em!” Silva roared down, and Lanier shook his pudgy fist, eliciting more hilarity.

  “Being on limited duty only means you don’t have to carry Lanier’s fat ass to his battle station in the aft crew’s head when they sound GQ,” Chief Gray said dryly. The Super Bosun had suddenly appeared among them. Silva guffawed, but most of the ’Cats only chuckled politely. Enjoying themselves somehow felt too much like shirking when the Bosun was looking. Gray slapped the nearest ’Cat on the back. “C’mon,” he said, “that was funny!” A few more Lemurians dutifully laughed and Gray shook his head. He hadn’t meant to be a wet blanket, and he’d known exactly what Silva was trying to do. He even thought he could help. But his status as the terrible Chief Bosun of the Navy prevented him from enjoying the same familiarity with the crew that Silva had grown into. Silva’s ability to do that actually perplexed him. Before they came to this world, the maniac always had his clique—other troublemakers, mostly—but he’d finally harnessed and directed his destructive powers; learned to focus them on the enemy instead of everyone around him. He liked people now, at least those on his side, and his exploits had achieved an almost mythical status. Ultimately, even if he was still alarming in a “don’t play with the rattlesnake” sort of way, his shipmates weren’t actively afraid of him anymore. Gray thought that was a good thing, particularly since Silva seemed to like it that way too.

  Gray glared at Horn. “You’ve had field artillery training. Didn’t you guys use those old French seventy-fives in the Philippines?”

  “Some guys called ’em that,” Horn grumbled.

  Gray shrugged. “So what? Same gun.” He pointed at the portside 4"-50. “The Welin breech on these is different, but you still gotta slam a shell in it, and you can do that.” He gestured around. “That’ll free up one of these guys to do something that takes more experience.”

  Horn hesitated.

  “Hey,” said Silva, grinning. “He’s doin’ you a favor. I was gonna have you humpin’ ammo up from the magazine. As first shellman, you’ll get to be up here w
ith me, watchin’ the show!”

  “Sea action at night is . . . ‘rettier than running through the jungle, shooting at Jaaphs!” Lawrence confirmed. He looked at the breech of the number two gun. “Just look out. She kicks to the rear around thirty inches!” He beamed at Silva, who’d taught him, but snarled when Dennis ruffled his crest.

  The general-quarters alarm sounded. The thing had been so abused by age, use, and even submergence, it was commonly called the dying-duck call, even by ’Cats who’d never heard a duck. They’d learned what ducks were, and there were plenty of creatures that made similar sounds on this world. The alarm was joined by Minnie’s childlike voice on the new loudspeakers: “All haands—maan you baattle stations!”

  Chief Gray moved to the middle of the platform and blew “Clear ship for action” on his bosun’s pipe, and when he heard the call repeated, he looked back at Silva and waved. “So long, fellas. Good huntin’!”

  Silva punched Horn on a particularly sore shoulder muscle. “Here we go, ol’ buddy. Put your tin hat on!”

  CHAPTER

  37

  “L ookout confirms three Grik baattleships, bearing two seero five!” Minnie informed the bridge over the tumult of thundering feet and clattering gear. ’Cats and men raced up the ladder to the fire-control platform above, some carrying extra boxes of ammunition for the Browning.30s already mounted there. “Range is maybe six t’ousand tails—I mean, yaards!” Minnie still got those mixed up, but the measurements were virtually identical and it made little difference. Commander Simon Herring chose that moment to arrive on the bridge, ushered up the stairs by the clanging peg in place of Juan Marcos’s left leg. Matt noted that Herring was dressed in whites, something he and the rest of his officers never did in action anymore.

  “Here, Cap-tan,” Juan said, snatching Matt’s hat and reaching up to drop a helmet on his head. Matt tried to stare through his binoculars while Juan struggled to fasten a pistol belt around his waist, complete with his battered academy sword. There was no point complaining, and Juan would sulk. He concentrated on the view while the rest of those on the bridge exchanged hats for helmets, even Courtney. Walker had Pam Cross and a good ’Cat surgeon now, so Courtney was free to do whatever he wanted unless really needed in the wardroom. It had brightened considerably with the moon creeping higher, and Matt distinguished the black coast of India against the scattered stars, but that was it. “I can’t see them yet,” he said. “Any word on the cruisers?”

  “Lookout sees only waagons. They is hugging the coast,” Minnie reported. “Prob’ly tryin’ to hide against it.” She snorted. “Maybe they all run aground!”

  “That’s a pleasant thought,” Courtney Bradford agreed, “but, sadly, they doubtless know the depths here far better than we. The charts captured on Ceylon and during Keje’s previous, brief stay at Madras are strikingly precise.”

  “I see exhaust sparks!” confirmed Bernie Sandison on the port bridgewing. He’d joined the lookouts there with his binoculars while his torpedo ’Cats readied the director. “Definitely coal burners ahead!”

  “Have the crow’s nest watch for the cruisers,” Matt cautioned. “They might be up to something. Maybe screening more to seaward.”

  “Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan!” Minnie said. After a short pause, she reported: “All stations maaned an’ ready. Mister Palmer says Mahaan aack— hears our warning an’ also maanning baattle stations!”

  “Very well. Have Mr. Palmer ask her to watch for the cruisers as well.” He looked at Spanky. “Better take your station aft,” he said. “Let’s hope you don’t have anything to do this time,” he added wryly.

  “You said it, Skipper! I’d just as soon sit in a rockin’ chair and watch the show if it’s all the same to you! See you when we’re done.” With that, Spanky nodded at Courtney and the others, stepped quickly to the ladder aft, and clattered down to the weather deck on his way to the auxiliary conn.

  “Do you really think those . . . cruisers could be a threat, Captain Reddy?” Herring asked. “They’ve contributed little to the fighting so far.”

  “They’re fairly helpless against air attack,” Matt allowed, “but Jim . . .” He frowned and cleared his throat. “Jim said they’re good ships and might be trouble in a slugging match.” He sighed. “I don’t ever want to take anything for granted on this goofed-up world again, so, yeah, if they’re out there, armed, and full of Grik, they’re a threat. I believe we can handle them: they’ve got nowhere near the armor of those BBs, but we have to see them to kill them. Much as I hate Kurokawa, he’s a real naval officer and he’s not stupid. He’s crazy as hell, but I can’t put anything past him. I don’t like surprises unless they’re ours.”

  “Lookout sees cruisers!” Minnie cried triumphantly. “They is to seaward, in line, bearing seero two seero!”

  “All of them?” Matt asked doubtfully.

  “He thinks four.”

  “That may be all, Captain Reddy,” suggested Herring. “No one knows how many sortied.”

  Matt grunted. “No, but something you may not’ve picked up is that Grik naval—and air formations, I guess—generally come in multiples of three, and that’s something Kurokawa seems to have embraced. He hasn’t discouraged it, anyway.”

  “Maybe the other two, if they exist, broke down between Madras and here,” Courtney suggested. He looked at Herring. “It has been reported that their engines appear somewhat unreliable.”

  “That’s possible,” Matt nodded, “but we still need to keep our eyes peeled for at least two more.” He looked at Minnie. “Have Mr. Palmer signal Mahan to take station aft. We’ll proceed between the two forces in line of battle. Stand by for surface action, port and starboard, but we’ll reserve the starboard torpedoes and use the port tubes on the BBs.” He considered. “Have Mr. Campeti concentrate his fire control on the cruisers to starboard. We don’t have any of the new AP shells yet and, by all reports, our common shells won’t have much effect on the BBs. We’ll have a better chance against the cruisers with the main battery. Silva can direct the number two gun against the wagons in local control if he likes.”

  “Ay, ay, sur.”

  “Won’t that alert them and cause them to maneuver?” Herring asked. “They may prove more difficult targets for the torpedoes.”

  Matt looked at him, reminding himself that for all his occasional bluster, Herring wasn’t an experienced line officer. This would be the man’s first naval action and he had to be nervous. Matt still didn’t know what he thought of Herring, but he was obviously trying to learn. He chose to be tactful. “Against the Jap Navy, I’d agree. But the Grik don’t—didn’t—have integrated fire control yet, and had to aim each gun individually. I hope that’s still the case. If so, they’ll have to steam straight and steady to hit us, and if that is Kurokawa over there, he’ll damn sure want to hit us. That said, I know Silva can whack the big bastards, even in local control. I doubt he’ll do much but ring their bell, but that’s liable to encourage the enemy to maintain their line of battle—especially when we start clobbering their cruisers.” He nodded out at the bridgewing. “That’s when Mr. Sandison’s new toys’ll have their best chance.”

  “I see,” Herring murmured. “But surely surprise would still benefit us?”

  Matt nodded. “Of course, and we’ll sure take it if we get it. Squeezing right between the BBs and cruisers undetected before we launch torpedoes would be ideal. We might sink all the big boys, then stand off and hammer the cruisers at our leisure. We can’t count on that, however. Grik don’t see as well as ’Cats in the dark, and they might just miss us, but you can bet they’re on the lookout, and we’re going to pass awful close.” He waved aft. “We’re kicking up a mighty bright wake, and the one thing we don’t dare do is slow down. They’ve got a lot of big guns!”

  Herring was silent a moment. “I confess,” he finally said, “I’m unaccustomed to making such elaborate plans—considering so many contingencies—on the fly. There should be a way, through careful pl
anning and preparation, to eliminate more of the variables you described. Perhaps . . . Perhaps we shouldn’t attack tonight. We’ve found the enemy and should be able to shadow him until daylight and make a more considered attack, in conjunction with our air power.”

  Matt frowned. “We don’t have any more ship-killing bombs, Mr. Herring, so our air is limited. Since we have to get close for Bernie’s fish to have a good chance, a night action is to our advantage.” He snorted angrily. “Besides, we’re here, the enemy’s there, and we’re going to fight him. You can analyze everything later and point out all the ways I screw this up, but one thing you need to learn is that long, careful plans are great—until the first gun goes off. The whole point of command is the ability to make, revise, and reject a dozen plans all at once, on the fly, as you said, because if your enemy isn’t a complete idiot, that’s what he’s doing!”

  “Range is twenty-eight hundreds to wagons, thirty-five hundreds to cruisers,” Minnie reported.

  “Very well,” Matt said. Staring hard through his binoculars, he could see the Grik dreadnaughts now. He’d read the descriptions and talked to others who’d seen them, but this was his first personal glimpse. “They are pretty big,” he said grudgingly. Sweeping his glasses right, he barely saw the dark shapes of the cruisers as well. On a calmer sea, they’d have been clearer, but all he noted was their bare-poled masts moving against the moon-hazed night. A bright flash lit the left lens of his Bausch & Lombs and he quickly redirected them. “So much for surprise,” he muttered.

  “Lookout says first Grik waagon opens fire!” Minnie cried. A big, phosphorescent geyser erupted three hundred yards short. “Caam-peeti asks to commence firing!”